


this is what it feels like to know it could be forever

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bathing/Washing, Feelings Realization, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Injuries, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28319073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: He has no trouble finding Jaskier, who’s in the middle of the expansive room, strumming his lute and coaxing a group of young children to join in on an old nursery rhyme. They do, and Jaskier leads them in a twirling dance between the wooden beams and around the tables filled with patrons.Geralt smiles, small and lopsided. He hides it in the collar of his cloak, though, because it’s for him only.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 220
Collections: Geraskier Holiday Exchange 2020





	this is what it feels like to know it could be forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stonecoldsilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/gifts).



> my gift to [stonecoldsilly](https://twitter.com/stonecoldsilly) for dallie and max's [geraskier holiday exchange 2020](https://twitter.com/geraskierxchnge)!
> 
> the prompt was for the first bath, EVER, and i gave it my usual dramatic flare. anyway. merry christmas and happy holidays!

Hissing, Geralt stands and presses the palm of his hand into the wound on his side. It’s large and long, seeping blood, but it isn’t terribly deep, thank the gods, and there is no need to stitch it because it will begin to knit back together by the time he reaches the tavern he left Jaskier at.

Still, though, it _hurts_ , like a splinter shoved deep into the tip of his finger, and he knows it’s going to scar. He isn’t particularly fond of that process.

Bending at the knees, he grabs the hilt of his sword—dropped sometime during the scuffle with the bruxa in a fruitless attempt to avoid its talons—and slings the ichor off the blade before returning it to its sheath. He’ll need to clean and oil it later, after a half-boiling bath and at least four plates of food. His appetite for _everything_ intensifies when he ingests his potions, and while he isn’t looking forward to the damage his coin purse is going to take after tonight, he can’t find it in him to ignore the urges to rest after the bruxa.

Cutting the head from the creature is an impersonal affair. It takes a moment to slice through tissue, muscle, and bone, and blood splatters the ground, painting the dark green grass a rich crimson.

He finds Roach easily, tucked into a meadow that’s heavy with yellow and purple autumnal flowers. They’ll be dead soon, decaying in the frost just before the first snow fall, and Roach, ever the glutton, munches on them happily.

“Hey, girl,” he greets her, adjusting her bit and strapping his weapons to her saddle. She bristles when he ropes the head of his contract to the saddle, too, but doesn’t try to buck it off like she did when he first bought her, years and years ago. “Miss me?”

She makes a noise that is oddly sentient for a horse, and he laughs a bit as he presses his lips to her nose.

He mounts, a bit too fast, and almost falls off the other side. Vertigo swims through him; images flash in and out of focus and his stomach twists and turns. He’s going to be sick, from the exertion of the fight and the potions in his system and the clotting wound on his side.

Roach won’t appreciate it if he were to vomit on the swell of her belly, though, so he rightens himself, gathers the wits that are left, and uses the reins that feel too thick and heavy in his grip to lead her to the town.

With Cat still running through his veins, his senses are heightened; if he focuses, he can just faintly here Jaskier’s sweet voice from the tavern, more than half an hour’s walk. And it’s beautiful, like the way puffy clouds in the summer roll and tumble and form shapes similar to the fairytales that Geralt and his brothers used to tell one another when they were children.

Injured and weary, exhausted down to the bone, he makes his way toward the town, guided by Jaskier’s voice.

*

It’s difficult to ride past the tavern that Jaskier’s performing in, cajoling a sing-along of an old drinking tune, but Geralt does so with a grimace. He finds the alderman, shows proof of his kill; he’s paid in full, and tipped a little extra, too, and the man even shakes his hand and thanks him for his time.

It’s peculiar, but Geralt doesn’t question it. He nods at the alderman and takes his leave, and makes his way toward Jaskier’s beguiling singing, and if he pushes Roach at a quick trot—well, then, that’s nobody’s business but his and hers.

The tavern is in a jovial uproar when Geralt walks through the doors. His senses have dulled, just a bit—everything is still too much, incredibly too much, but it’s more manageable, and being in the same space as Jaskier is a soothing balm on an aching muscle.

He has no trouble finding Jaskier, who’s in the middle of the expansive room, strumming his lute and coaxing a group of young children to join in on an old nursery rhyme. They do, and Jaskier leads them in a twirling dance between the wooden beams and around the tables filled with patrons.

Geralt smiles, small and lopsided. He hides it in the collar of his cloak, though, because it’s for him only.

Jaskier notices him when he finishes the song with the children. His smile is warm and comforting, like the hand he often puts on Geralt’s back when they’re meandering through a crowded market, and he makes his way toward Geralt with intent in his pretty blue eyes.

“It went well?” he asks, sweeping his eyes across Geralt’s entire form. He makes no comment on the blood and muck, accepting it as he does most things on the path, and that truth settles heavy in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. “No injuries?”

Geralt ignores the heat that blossoms in his chest at the reminder that Jaskier genuinely cares for him and shrugs. “I’ll heal,” he says, pressing a hand to the wound in his side without thought. It stings, but the blood’s stopped and clotted, and with a quick wash and healing balm, he’ll be fine in the morning. “Do we have a room?”

“We do. Last door on the left.” Jaskier swings his lute around his back and falls into step with Geralt. “I’ve got us a meal, too.”

“Later.” Geralt finds the stairs that lead to the upper level easily; the patrons of the bar pay him no mind and don’t stink of fear as he passes, as if they’re not terrified of having a witcher in their presence. “I need a bath.”

“I’ve already called you one up, my dear,” Jaskier says. He stops on the first step and turns to say to anyone who cares to be listening that he will return to them shortly.

Geralt doesn’t wait for him. He’s too focused on trying to understand the reason behind the yellow-colored emotion that makes his chest swell and expand at the thought of Jaskier choosing to spend a sparse few moments with him away from the people who give him the proper attention he deserves.

He finds the room easy and walks inside; Jaskier follows, loudly, and sets his lute on the foot of the single bed. Geralt drops his swords on the small table and begins to unlatch his armor, removing it slowly, languidly, as to not disrupt the tender healing of his injury.

“The people here are nice.”

Geralt hums, preoccupied with his armor. He gets it off and shoves it beneath the table, out of the way and mostly gone from his sight. He’ll take a rag and oil to it later, just like his sword, after he’s bathed and eaten and rested a bit.

“It’s always good when they’re nice,” Jaskier continues, nonplussed by Geralt’s lack of contribution as he takes a seat on the too-small bed in the center of the room, “because that means I don’t have to haggle with anyone who pays you less than you deserve or tries to charge you more than anything’s worth.”

Geralt exhales through his nose, half of a laugh. “Is that so?” He shuffles free of his breeches and kicks out of his boots; he grabs a large towel from the rack near the wooden tub that’s full with hot, steaming water, and wraps it around his waist. “Are you my knight in shining armor?”

Jaskier waves off Geralt’s words. “Knights in shining armor only exist in fairytales told to little children to get them to eat vegetables,” he replies, speaking from a place of knowledge, it seems.

“Feral bards, however, are as common as trolls in Temeria.”

“There are no trolls in Temeria.”

“That you know of.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and then, half-appalled, “Geralt, did you just make a _joke_?”

“At your expense?” He raises a brow. “Always.” He laughs, but the movement jostles his side and a flash of pain shoots through his system, amplified by the potions steadily trickling free.

Jaskier frowns. “Geralt,” he says, like Geralt’s name is his favorite word, like it’s a prayer fit to be spoken in the temples, and then he looks along Geralt’s chest, eyes devouring the scarred flesh before he sees the wound. “Geralt, your side—”

“It’s fine,” he hurries to cut Jaskier off. It’ll do the bard more harm than good to continue to worry over Geralt the way he does. Geralt’s life is dangerous—Jaskier knows this. Fretting over it is useless, if a bit flattering. “I’ll wrap it up after I bathe.”

Jaskier nods, but he keeps his mouth shut, pressed into a thin, tight line. They’ve not known one another for long, but Geralt knows the bard’s tells: the nervous shift of his leg, the picking at a faded stitch on his doublet, the crinkle between his brows—all are indications that he has something to say but is choosing to hold it back, a maturity that Geralt is still surprised to see.

Geralt walks up the few steps on the platform the tub is on and drops the towel out of the way. Water licks at the rim as he climbs in, spilling over as he sits and settles; his wound stings mutedly, like a bruise that’s healed but left behind a sweet ache. The water is hot and delicious, engulfing his body like he imagines a hug might feel and scented with honeysuckle and lavender from Jaskier’s bathing salts. He tosses his head back and groans, louder than he should have.

Jaskier chuckles. “That good, huh?”

Geralt opens eyes he didn’t realize were shut and finds Jaskier standing next to the door. His hand is on the neck of his lute, as if he’s ready to leave. A sharpness jolts through Geralt—suddenly, so abrupt it nearly leaves him breathless, he realizes he doesn’t want Jaskier to leave him alone.

How terrifying. And spectacular.

“Wonderful,” he answers, dryly, and sinks low enough to lay his head on the rim of the tub. “Are you leaving?”

Jaskier nods. “Yeah,” he replies, offering a warbled, benign smile. “I promised a full set, and I’m not finished just yet.”

He opens his mouth to say, with little emotion, that he will be downstairs after his bath for food, but instead what comes out is, “Stay,” and it’s so little, so whispery-soft, that Geralt feels frighteningly weak for wanting to not be alone and disgusted with himself that he has allowed Jaskier to see this needy part of him.

But Jaskier must see something in his face, as hidden as it is, because he laughs and jokes, as a way to save the embarrassment that is burning beneath Geralt’s skin, “Why, Geralt, I didn’t know you liked my company that much,” as he shuts the door and walks further into the room.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I would never,” he replies.

Geralt snorts because he knows Jaskier definitely would.

Jaskier walks up the few steps that lead to the tub and drops to his knees behind Geralt, sitting back on his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches the smoke-dirty mirror as Jaskier removes his doublet and rolls the sleeves of his chemise up to his elbows before dunking his hands in the water next to Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt startles. “Bard—”

“Oh, hush, Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts, swirling his hand beneath the water to create a current that dissolves the few little bits of honeysuckle and lavender salt at the bottom. “Raising your arms above your head will only pull your wound back open, and, as much as it pains me to admit, I am still lacking in the talent of sewing your injuries. Scoot back for me and I’ll wash your hair.”

Bewildered, Geralt does as Jaskier instructed, moving back till Jaskier can reach his hair easily. His brows furrow, but he doesn’t question himself on the reason he listened to Jaskier. He’s been doing this a lot, anyway—obliging and indulging Jaskier. If he keeps this behavior up, he’ll surely spoil the bard beyond fixing. 

“Close your eyes,” Jaskier says, and Geralt does as he’s instructed, scrunching his eyes closed. One of Jaskier’s hands comes up to cover his eyes, anyway, and he uses the other to pour water over Geralt’s head with the wooden pitcher. “Any preference on the scent?”

Geralt hums. “Nothing too strong,” he replies, still feeling the waning vestiges of the potions he consumed hours ago.

Jaskier moves away for a moment, and that terrifies Geralt for reasons he doesn’t understand, but he’s only digging through the satchel he brought to the bath next to him, and a moment later the fresh, clean scent of bergamot permeates the air.

Fingers are suddenly in his hair, massaging his scalp thoroughly, and he draws in a harsh, abrupt breath and grips the edges of the wooden tub so sharply it’s a wonder he doesn’t have splinters in his fingertips.

“Geralt?”

It hurts—not physically, not the way the wound on his side does, but deeply, in his chest. He has never… he has never. _Never_. He doesn’t deserve this generosity, this kindness.

“It’s cold, is all,” he lies, quickly, and soothes the ache in his heart. “Continue.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Of course.” His fingers, soft and hard at the same time, press into Geralt’s scalp some more, and Geralt tips his head backward further into the cradle of Jaskier’s hands, unable to fend off the need to fall into Jaskier completely, wholly, entirely.

Gods, if only it could be so easy, so simple. Jaskier is a force of nature; there’s magic in his blood, chaos that vibrates Geralt’s medallion when he sings, and perhaps he knows, perhaps he doesn’t, and it’s enough to lengthen his life, to keep him around in this world, and that should be a comfort to Geralt, who imprints like a mutt on the first person who shows him kindness, but it isn’t.

It isn’t because Jaskier is a wanderer, a dreamer, full of life and the want to see everything he can. He won’t curb that urge that bubbles beneath his skin if he spends all his time with Geralt, following him on the path, through the woods and between villages, saving coin to afford a half-clean room every once in a while.

No, Jaskier won’t be satisfied with following Geralt, and he will never ask that of Jaskier.

But. _But_. Geralt _could_ follow Jaskier.

It’s never that easy, though.

“Your hair is beautiful,” Jaskier observes, quiet as a whisper and just as gentle as his touch.

Geralt curls his nose, half in disgust and half in utter bewilderment at his bard. “The color is ugly.”

Jaskier is silent a moment, and then he says, “No,” so delicately that Geralt feels as if a timid gust of wind could bowl him over. Jaskier chuckles. “It looks like starlight, almost.”

Jaskier scratches Geralt’s scalp, then, and for a moment all thought leaves Geralt’s mind. This feels so good, so deliciously munificent—Jaskier is taking care of him in a way that he can’t remember even his own mother ever doing for him, let alone anyone at Kaer Morhen and since then.

It hurts. It’s so good, though. Geralt wishes he could cry, if only to release all the emotion that is building inside of him.

When Geralt finds his voice, finally, he says, “My brother said it looks like the snowfall.”

Jaskier huffs, but it’s more of a laugh than a noise of annoyance. “What does that look like?”

“Clouds, almost,” Geralt replies. He isn’t the best with words—they’ve eluded him for decades, an infliction that’s only gotten worse through the years—but he reckons he owes it to Jaskier to try. “Like the fluffiest ones in the sky became so heavy they fell to the earth and settled across everything, like a blanket. I remember Eskel and I sneaking out of our beds to watch it float down from the sky one winter.”

“Eskel is your brother?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers, and he finds that there is a ghost of a smile on his lips. “That was so long ago.”

“He’s a good man?”

“All my brothers are good men.” Lambert is a bit of an asshole, but that’s part of his charm. “They don’t see themselves as such, though. To give them a kind word—they don’t know how to take it.”

Jaskier lets out a puff of air that hits the top of Geralt’s shoulders and makes him shiver. “Sounds like another witcher I know,” he says, exasperated, but there is a current of fondness in his tone that steals Geralt’s breath and refuses to give it back.

Geralt is quiet after that, relishing the feel of Jaskier’s fingers. He feels at ease, as if his bones were liquid; this deep level of relaxation usually only comes when he’s bathing in the springs beneath the keep, when the sun shines through the cracked stones just right to illuminate the water, and it’s odd that he’s found it out on the path, but he thinks of course it’s with Jaskier, of course it is, there is no one else who is as simultaneously fearless and fearsome as him.

Jaskier is heretic, an enigma that Geralt still only understands vaguely. It eats at his mind—he has never met anyone that he didn’t understand. It stays in the back of his mind, sticky like the jelly from his favorite biscuits, but it’s a comfort, too, because not understanding Jaskier means that he can keep Jaskier until he does.

Jaskier gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and sets it atop his head in a sudsy, heavy bun. He pushes and rubs and prods at the knots on Geralt’s shoulders and back, and it is good, it is so good that Geralt isn’t sure he deserves this kindness, given freely and without any need of something in return. He doesn’t know how to return this compassion, and that makes his shoulders snap tightly.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, and he is a lot closer than Geralt expected because his breath scatters across Geralt’s neck, sending gooseflesh tickling along his skin.

Geralt folds his fingers into his palms and digs his nails into his skin to keep himself together. “What?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything and instead washes Geralt’s neck with water cupped in his palm. He leans in, after, and presses his lips to Geralt’s neck in a fragile, sudden kiss that resonates throughout Geralt’s body like an electric quake. He draws in an agonizing breath and goes still.

Jaskier is unperturbed, kissing Geralt on the neck once more before twining his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. His hands dip into the water and he splashes it up, across Geralt’s throat and chest, and then giggles, airily, seemingly as innocent as the day he was born, and tickles his fingertips along Geralt’s forearm, interlacing their fingers and bringing their hands up to Geralt’s face.

“Cover your eyes, my darling,” Jaskier speaks against Geralt’s ear, and Geralt does as he’s told because his heart is beating so fast in his ribcage that he doesn’t know what else to do. “Just like that, my dear.”

Jaskier pulls himself away and he leaves behind a fresh wave of chilly air—Geralt wants him back, touching him, with a ferocity so quick to build that it makes him choke on the air he’s breathing, but he doesn’t say this. He just presses his hands into his eyes so hard that bursts of color erupt behind his closed lids and focuses on that instead of the ache in his chest.

Jaskier is fast and efficient as he rinses the soap from Geralt’s hair. Afterward, he smells clean, a little bit like Jaskier. Jaskier hums and grabs a rag and lathers it with soap before dragging it across Geralt’s back, shoulders, chest, arms. He shuffles to the side on his legs and dips his forearm beneath the water; Geralt watches, stupefied and awed, as Jaskier washes first one leg and then the other, as competent at this as he is improvising tunes for the children in the villages they visit.

“Jaskier?”

“Yes, my darling?”

Geralt’s face warms at the term of endearment. “Can you talk?”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “You like the sound of my voice that much?”

“Please.”

“Of course, Geralt,” he replies, and then he begins to talk as he scratches oiled fingers through Geralt’s hair. He talks of anything and everything, and nothing at all, and Geralt hears about his childhood in Lettenhove, his journey to Oxenfort, his family, the friends he has made and the gossip surrounding their lives.

It’s nice—more than, really. It’s a constant, something that absorbs Geralt’s attention and allows him to step out of his mind for a moment. Jaskier’s voice is honey-sweet, like a treasure; to hear it so intimately, like this, _like this_ , is glorious.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, rough, and then clears he’s throat. “I do.”

“Pardon?”

It takes a moment for Geralt to find his words; Jaskier is patient with him, a glory in itself. “I do,” he says. “Like the sound of your voice.

Jaskier’s fingers in Geralt’s hair, spreading gentle-smelling eucalyptus oil, stutter in the same rhythm as his heartbeat. “Oh,” he breathes, and there is so much hidden in that simple word. “Perhaps I’ll wash you more often, then, if having my hands on you makes you this amenable.”

Geralt sighs. “Perhaps you should.”

Jaskier makes a noise, like the flutter of a bird’s wings, and then he’s moving. “Geralt?” His voice is high, airy and uncertain; he scoots to the side of the tub, and his fingers, sticky with oil, cradle Geralt’s face like he is priceless, meant to be treasured. “Geralt, darling, if I’m reading this wrong—”

Geralt draws in a breath and finds Jaskier’s hand with his. “You aren’t.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen almost comically. “Oh,” he says, again, and then once more with an immeasurable amount of understanding, “ _Oh_ ,” and then he leans forward, and he kisses Geralt on the mouth with an eagerness that could shatter the continent itself.

It’s gentle, honey-sweet and delicate. Geralt can’t remember the last time he’s felt cherished, adored, and it’s—breathtaking, to allow this.

Maybe it is as simple as following Jaskier. 

He turns toward Jaskier, as much as he can, and reaches his hand up to cup the back of Jaskier’s head. He holds Jaskier to him, presses upward; Jaskier licks his mouth once, twice, and on the third time Geralt opens, meets Jaskier’s tongue with his, and he swallows the startled noise that Jaskier makes.

Jaskier collapses against the tub as if he’s a man adrift at sea finding land for the first time in days. Geralt lets Jaskier clutch his face, lets Jaskier kiss him and set the pace as he feels . There’s no hurry, not for this. No, not for this.

He moves once more, trying to get as close to Jaskier as he possibly can, and there’s a quick pinch in his side. He pulls back and winces, and presses his hand over the wound in his side; it’s on the mend, mostly, but it’s tender beneath his palm.

“Geralt?”

“I’m okay, Jaskier.”

Jaskier puffs his chest. “‘I’m okay’—‘I’m okay,’ he says, as if he isn’t wounded, as if he doesn’t have a gash in his side,” Jaskier says, mostly to himself, and his imitation of Geralt is a half-insulting mockery, but it makes Geralt’s chest warm and a smile tease his lips. “I can’t believe—stand up, Geralt, and get out of this tub so I may look at you and decide for myself whether you are on death’s door or not.”

He grips Geralt’s shoulders and tugs until Geralt stands, and then he is taking Geralt’s elbow and ushering him from the wooden tub. He leaves Geralt standing and flutters about like a bird, pilfering through his bags and grabbing a sheet before he returns to Geralt. They are of a height; Geralt can see perfectly the color of Jaskier’s eyes, a blue so deep he wants to drown.

“Logically, I know you’re going to be okay,” he continues to speak, mumbling beneath this breath; his hands come up, wet and oily, and drag across the skin of Geralt’s chest, crisscrossing along his sides. His touch is light, like a feather, and it makes Geralt’s chest tight like he’s being pulled in two opposite directions. “I’ve seen worse, but—I don’t like this for—I _worry_ about you—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt holds Jaskier’s face in his hands. His cheeks are red, warm; Geralt smiles. “Jaskier, be quiet.”

Jaskier nods, silenced, and follows Geralt’s insistence and meets his lips once more. There’s an insistence thrumming beneath Geralt’s skin, a ferocity that steals his breath as Jaskier whimpers and slumps forward, presses himself against Geralt’s body and lets himself be kissed, deeply and thoroughly.

Geralt wipes the thin skin just beneath Jaskier’s flittering eyes. “Are you finished?” He speaks the words against Jaskier’s lips, kissed cherry-red and wet. 

Jaskier, half-drunk with this affection, says, giddily, “Absolutely not.”

Geralt sighs. “It was rather stupid of me to ask,” he acknowledges, twirling a curl of Jaskier’s hair around his finger. He likes the color, more brown than it is red, and how soft it is against his hands, beneath his callouses.

“Yeah.” He moves forward, kisses Geralt one more time, hard, before pulling back and blinking as he meets Geralt’s eyes. “Geralt, is this—”

“Yes,” he says, quickly, cutting Jaskier off. “Yes, Jaskier, it is.”

It’s been a long time coming. They’ll have to discuss this new, bright thing budding between them, of course—how Geralt has been harboring a torch for him since the third day they’ve known one another, how Jaskier’s voice leads him home after hunts, how he can pick Jaskier’s heartbeat out in a crowded of people—which is loathsome, but for Jaskier, Geralt will find the words.

He should’ve known—Jaskier had no qualms about approaching a brooding, solitary witcher in the corner of a tavern. There’s no reason he would be afraid of Geralt in this capacity, too.

Geralt kisses Jaskier’s tiny, twitching smile. “Now, let’s finish our bath.”

“Our?” Jaskier repeats, and, if possible, his face heats and reddens even more. Well. Well, that’s something, isn’t it? “Well, my dear, if you insist.”

Geralt tugs at Jaskier’s chemise. “I do,” he says, and then laughs outright as Jaskier hurries to shed his doublet and breeches, and they fall into the tub together, sloshing water over the sides, naked and laughing, and kissing, smearing their smiles against one another’s skin, and touching, and the tightness in Geralt’s chest finally, _finally_ , releases as he holds Jaskier close.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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